He is King
by She Ain't No Blondie
Summary: Alistair may be King, but sometimes it doesn't feel that way. Alistair/Amell.


Alistair has read books about kings. They're always out in the battlefield, riding white horses, winning epic battles. Or they're sitting on grand thrones, magnificent banquets held in their honor, women bestowing them with knowing look.

Alistair is king, but none of this has actually happened for him.

Instead, he stares at mountains of paperwork, rubbing his eyes as the words seem to swirl and mingle in front of him. He squints at one document, trying to decipher its _intent_ and _validation_—words Eamon has taught him—and wondering if he should write approve or reject.

He briefly entertains the idea of approving the next twelve issues so he can return to his wife, but the last time he tried that he had to spend twelve days making it up to the four farmers whose land he had accidentally taken, and endure four—_four_!—lectures from Eamon about _responsibilities_ and _taking things seriously_.

He is painfully aware of the clock striking half past ten when the doors to his private study swing open and he feels a crackle of electricity in the air.

The Chantry boy in him tenses, remembering his Templar training. The Grey Warden in him hums for a glorious battle. The King in him just sighs.

He doesn't bother trying to explain the words _private study_ to his intruder; he doesn't even bother looking up from his paperwork. Instead, he steels himself for the wrath of the Hero of Ferelden.

There are many titles for her: mage, Warden-Commander, Queen of Ferelden.

He settles on, "Hullo, wifey."

Pale blue eyes glare at him. "Don't give me that, Alistair. You're two hours late. We had a deal."

"Did you know the Hollowbrook family is petitioning to reduce their taxes by a mighty three percent?" he says, aware that he's only giving her reason to get angrier. "I tell you, these kingly duties—whew!—so much excitement."

His wife rolls her eyes. "We made an agreement. When we're both in Denerim, we work from sunrise until sunset. After that, we are simply husband and wife. Not king and queen, not Grey Wardens, not—not _clerics_!"

Alistair finds it hard to argue with her. He was never particularly good at it—not when she was an innocent, timid mage, and especially not now when she's so capable of holding both the title of Queen and Warden-Commander.

"Sabina," he attempts, as she ignores him and pushes his carefully sorted paperwork out of the way, "I'm sorry. It's just that I've developed a habit. It's part of me actually trying to seem like a king and not an… incompetent monkey on the throne, as some like to put it."

"But, Alistair," and there's a slight whine accompanied by puppy dog eyes, "we've only been wed for six months. This is still supposed to be the honeymoon stage."

Alistair laughs and quickly regrets it seeing the hurt on her face. Sometimes it is hard to remember that despite the fact they have both come so close to death multiple times, they are still new to this aspect of their lives.

"And I've been gone for twelve weeks out of that time," Sabina continues, perching herself on his desk, looking demure in her regal robes.

Alistair blinks. It is a surprise for him, actually, to see her dressed so… bare. Before he was crowned, she wore mage robes, mostly tattered from battle after battle. After being named Warden-Commander, she wore heavier robes, adorned with sashes and emblems. But these robes… they are light and low cut, and he becomes painfully suspicious that she's wearing nothing else under them.

"If you want," she's still talking, and Alistair tries to regain focus, "we could play a little. You could be the mighty Templar, and I'll be the demure, little sheep."

"Darling, you're many things, but demure isn't the word I'd use," Alistair mumbles, as she inches across his desk and relocates herself comfortably in his lap. He's aware of how painful his erection has become, now poking into her inner thigh as she straddles him.

"How about wounded knight and loving healer?" She's staring right into his eyes, and Alistair can't help the moan escape him as she softly rocks her body against his.

"Oh, I know! How about stoic King and sexually frustrated Queen?"

And then she moves only an inch, and Alistair can feel it; despite the fact that _he_ has trousers on, her robe has slid off enough that he can feel nothing but her bare skin.

"Sabina," he says, aware his voice is coming out hoarse, "where are your undergarments?"

His wife pretends to look slightly confused. "I think I lost them."

"You—you—" She's still rocking, and her robes have completely splayed open, and there's definitely no doubt in his mind that she's completely naked. "You haven't been wandering around the castle like this, have you?"

"I left them behind in our bedroom, and then came straight here," she says, as her hands run down his chest until the button of his trousers. "I think Teagan noticed, but he's so polite he won't say anything."

"_Sabina_!"

And then she's freed his erection, and all he can think is _fuck taxes_, before he pushes his hips up and buries himself inside of her.

Alistair is aware that he is King, and that his arrival to the throne is nothing if not controversial. He also does not hide from the fact that his wife—mage and Warden-Commander—does nothing to help appease the small rebellion that spreads through Ferelden.

But when she moans his name—_his_ name—and she moves up and down his dick, touching her breasts, it's like a reminder of how she needs him. He pulls her body to her, angling her slightly, kissing her neck, leaving behind a trail of warmth, quickening his pace.

And when she switches from yelling his name to a simple _oh_, _oh_, _oh_ chant like it's a prayer, Alistair needs no further reminder of how much he needs her.

He thrusts three more times, digging his nails into the flesh of her ass, and comes. Her body becomes slack against his, and she rests her head on the crook of his shoulder, regaining her breath.

"I think you should take the rest of the night off," she whispers.

He rubs her back, as he has done many nights before, and nods his agreement.

They might be an odd pair, but he has no doubt that when his blood begins to hum, she will be by his side as they both return to the dark roads. And that is why she's his Queen.


End file.
